69 Or The Circle Divided Into Two Teardrops
by kimberlite8
Summary: An excerpt taking place in the same universe as my story "The Northman's Daughter" and its sequel "Every Dog Has His Day" which is posted in the first story . No need to read those to enjoy this one. The title tells you the theme. Mature content. One-shot.


**Title: 69 or the circle divided into two teardrops**

_This was written for the LJ SansaxSandor community comment fic#4 prompt "69." It takes place in the same universe as my story "The Northman's Daughter" (and its sequel within that story "Every Dog Has His Day"). No need to read those, but its the background for this story's setup.  
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_Disclaimer I: I own nothing. Its all GRRM!_

**_The subject of this story is in the title. I warned you!_**

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><p><strong>Sandor<strong>

Sansa was reading a letter by candlelight when Sandor entered their bedroom. She was already dressed for bed, in her white linen smock, her long auburn hair loose, falling in ruffled waves across her shoulders and back. She lay on the bed stomach down, her elbows propping up her upper body, the ivory skin of her bare toes and lower legs peeking out of her linen smock. When she saw him enter, she gave him a warm happy smile, reminding of him amusingly of a young dog staring up at him. She was adorable.

"I'm tired," he said to her. If she was a young dog, then he was old one, worn out by battles long past and a little shabby looking around the collar. He entered the room feeling tired by the events of the day and wanting to rest. Yet most of his weariness dissipated at the sight of her, at the unspoiled satisfaction of being the one to share her bedchamber, to love her and be loved in return with generous measure.

She made a movement as if to get up and help him undress but he stopped her. He slowly undressed himself without her aid while they exchanged a casual word from time to time.

"Whose letter are you reading?" he asked her.

"Tyrion, he writes from Yi Ti," she replied. The Imp had forsaken his hard-fought worldly rewards, the position of Hand of the King and his birthright as Lord of Casterly Rock, to travel to the ends of the earth. Sansa told him that the dwarf wanted to follow the example of Lomas Longstrider, a scribe who traversed lands no Westerosi had set foot in and who wrote about them in two books, Wonders and Wonders Made by Man. Sansa was collecting the Imp's letters, to bind them into books to be disseminated and discussed by learned peoples across the Seven Kingdoms.

Sandor grunted, the Imp was no friend of his and Sansa's first husband to boot. He got into their bed, naked, as it was his preference to sleep without clothes. He stretched out his aching muscles and yawned loudly, moving his large palms to caress her arse, broadly hinting where his wishes laid. He wanted the proper perfection to the end of a man's day. He wanted to fuck and then he wanted to fall asleep.

Sansa turned and faced him, sitting with her feet tucked under her, the letter put aside. She removed her white linen smock, revealing her nakedness. She was so exquisite that it almost hurt to look at her.

"Tyrion writes of a concept at the heart of all Yi Ti knowledge, all their alchemy and medicine, all their philosophies, even their practice of arms."

Sansa traced the concept on his abdomen, her touch sensuous and featherlight, his cock pulsed with excitement. "It's a circle, divided into two teardrops halves, one black, the other white, within each half is a smaller cirlce, of the opposite color."

"Humph" he grunted. "Like the number 69 ... what does the circle represent, good and evil, seven heavens and the seven hells?" he asked. His desire pooled inside him making his testicles tighten in delicious anticipation.

"No, not good and evil, not opposing forces, but complementary opposites. Light and Darkness, Ice and Fire ... Male and Female." She started to stroke his cock, up and down, gentle yet firm, making his blood surge, making him pant in excitement.

"The smaller circle of opposite color inside the teardrop, its like what you told me...of the Summer Islanders' who believe inside every man is a feminine spirit and inside every woman, a masculine one. There's a primordial knowledge in the hearts of the realms of men." She squeezed the tip of his aching cock, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. He felt he would die if she didn't make good on the promise of that pink tongue. He would do anything to win that kiss from his lady. It was beautiful torture, and the wolf bitch knew it.

Sansa had a mouth that drove him to madness. He was bewitched and slain by the warm, moist cave of that mouth, lined with gleaming, straight white teeth, her tenderly coiled yet innocent pink tongue. She would smile at him, open-mouthed, and he would feel light-headed, as if hit square between the eyes with a pole-axe. They would sit together during supper, at the King's table. He would feed her morsels off his plate, they drank from the same cup, kissing often and unpredictably. One time, when she had too much to drink she leaned close to him, her smile as beatific and as pure as the Maiden, but her eyes as lascivious as some heathen Lysene love goddess. _I'll suck you dry my lord, you and all your minions,_she whispered to him in his good ear, his only ear, the one still there. Her words were so wanton, giving him a cockstand as big as a baby's leg. She giggled afterward, the terrible slut that she was, as he struggled on how to leave the table without public embarrassment.

Sansa moved her mouth towards his cock. Just the closeness of seeing her lovely face, her delicate autumnal beauty against it, made his seed churn in his testicles. He saw a drop of his seed spill over the head of his cock. It was weeping, weeping, weeping. It wept for her.

"The circle gives birth to things..." She kissed the head of his cock, lapping up his seed.

"A seed will sprout from the earth and the plant grow upwards towards the sky, that's the male movement. Then, when it reaches its full potential height, it will fall, that's the female movement." She started giggling while her tongue licked him and down. Her own lechery amused her, it was an uncharacteristic trait that would have astonished all save him, the strange focus of her lusts.

She looked up at him while she sucked him off, her big blue eyes, dark with passion, but soft and dewy with her love for him. He was stuck by her expression and by the idea of the circle, male and female, complementary opposites, giving pleasure and receiving it simultaneously. He wanted to push his cock between the warm moist cave of her mouth while burying his face in the warm moist cave of her cunt. The best cunt, the sweetest cunt in the whole world.

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><p>"Enough, girl," he rasped at her. She released him from the magic and might of that mouth, leaning back with her feet tucked behind her legs, like an eager student ready for the next lesson. He got up from the bed and stood on the ground near the edge of the bed, facing her. He held out his hand and he pulled her to her feet, urging her closer to the edge of the bed. She stood on the bed with her arms entwined around his neck. With the added height of the bed, she stood taller than he, an upside-down arrangement that forced her to lean down to kiss him. They kissed passionately, his tongue thrusting inside her mouth. He tasted the faint hint of his essence on his lips. The taste was peculiar, both repelling him and arousing him at once. Sansa made a little hum, a <em>hmmm<em>, of pleasure and sucked on his tongue, her own tongue curling to duel with his.

He grabbed her arse, kneading it roughly with his strong palms while his tongue flicked her earlobe, playing with it lazily. Oh she was the soul of temptation, she had _it_, the undefinable feminine spirit that drew men like iron to a lodestone. Daily he gave the evil eye, a promise of violent prolonged retribution, to the scores of dogs who panted at her heels. Others take him, he couldn't believe he was the lucky dog who won her, that out of her hundreds of suitors, she had chosen him. It made up for the countless, _frustrating _times he got the shit end of the stick in his thirty plus years on this earth. Sansa was a confounding kaleidoscope. At times she called to him with regal authority, the Queen of Love and Beauty, a refined woman of the highest blood who nonetheless looked like she loved a long, hard ride in the bedchamber. And at other times she called to him with maidenly allure, the allure of an innocent ripe for corruption.

"I won't drop you, little bird," he murmured gently.

She gave him a confused look, then a gasp of surprise as he quickly pulled her away from the bed, lifting by her waist and then flipping her upside down. Her feet flew up in the air, while her head bobbed near his groin. He held her in an iron grip, his hands around her hips as she settled the top of her thighs on his shoulders. He kissed between her legs, burying his mouth in her cunt, tonguing her folds with a hungry groan. He loved it, kissing her down there, drawing out her abundant wetness. Her taste and scent filling his nostrils, heady stuff, an opulent, exotic spice reminding him of the taste of the air of the earth after it rained, mildly salty like the smell of sea tide at Casterly Rock.

He thrust his hips, a silent demand that she did not ignore. With that powerful mouth of hers that slayed him, she took his cock with greedy abandon. She pushed him down far, enveloping him, as he thrust his hips, plunging his cock into her mouth. He licked and licked her, flicking his tongue over that little nub that made her whimper, plunging it into that moist cave of a cunt that made him weak. He was very gentle and very thorough.

He was both pleasing her and being pleasured by her, the combination indistinguishable from each other. They were indistinct, he couldn't choose his favorite, both commanded his desires equally. They dueled each other with their mouths, each battling to slay the other, to see who could gift culmination, _the little death_first.

He lapped at her with her more pressure, faster and faster, torturing that little nub of flesh that was the leash that held her release. His hips thrust into her mouth with increasing urgency. He felt her head bobbing to keep up with his pace, her hair swaying as it tickled his thighs. Then he felt her body strain, she released him from her mouth, hugging his thighs tightly as the she climaxed in moans of _oh, oh, oh_that drove him to the brink.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed explosively once she stopped trembling. He was incapable of civilized speech, of smooth gallantries, when it came to the act of sexual love with her. He would grunt and groan and mutter curses as if he was more beast than man. He flipped her over suddenly and then threw her on the bed. She landed with a soft _oomph_, panting in her aftermath of her culmination, her defeat that was her victory. But he was not done, not by a long shot.

Sansa crawled on her hands and knees to the edge of the bed where he stood as if pulled by an invisible leash. She nestled her face against his groin, holding him tightly. His hands reached down to touch her head, running his fingers through her hair, his knuckles gently caressing her cheek. Her hands reached around him and stroked his arse from behind. They stroked and petted each other for long moments, silent save for odd sigh from her, the deep grunt from him.

She began to move her face, nuzzling him, back and forth. He felt her cheeks and her nose and her chin rub against the tip of his hard cock and against his testicles. He scooped up one of his testicles, lifting it into her mouth.

"Lick them," he ordered. She tongued it and gently sucked at one, all the while still stroking his arse in soothing circular motions with her palms. She let the first testicle slip from her mouth and turned her attentions to the other one. She sucked this one even deeper, making soft suction noises that made him twist his hands in her hair in excitement.

"That's good, so good ... good girl" he growled at her. She continued her ministrations until he ended them. He pulled his sac away from her and held his hard cock in his hand. He pressed it against her mouth, desiring her service. But she was uncharacteristically disobedient, pursing her lips closed.

"Go on, girl," he said with a grimace, "Don't tell me you don't know how."

She stared up at him with a bemused expression of rebellion as her little pink tongue flicked at the tip but made no movements to deepen her kisses. She got up from her sitting position, standing on the bed once again. She lifted up her right leg, hooking it around his hip. He guided himself to her, burrowing between her folds, searching for her entrance. He found it, so hot and wet, and she whimpered, biting her lip, at the pressure of his invasion. He pushed into her while hoisting her up, hooking both of her legs in the crook of his arms. He gathered her closer to him while moving away from the bed. At first she held on to him tightly frightened by her lack of purchase. Her nails dug into his biceps, it would have hurt but for his thick corded muscles, he was built like a bull, his arms like the trunks of small trees. With one hand he stroked her back, comforting her. He began moving in restrained little thrusts, experimentally until she started grinding herself against him, urging him to quicken his speed. He thrust harder, faster, his hands moved lower down her back so that her body hung at a greater angle away from his. He swung her around while thrusting inside her.

Her fear over being dropped seemed to heighten her pleasure, he feel her inner tissues clamp down on him in frantic pleasure just as her nails would dig deeper into his arms. She moaned and then started to cry "I like it, I like it, I like it." She had said those words to him their first time together. She had been a maiden and her cunt so tiny and tight, he felt a monstrous brute as he lay on top of her, moving inside her, his sweaty forehead pressed against hers as he murmured rough apologies, _Sansa ... I can't help myself ...I can't stop._ She had caressed his back, whispering _I like it, I like it, I like it_in a pained, shaky voice that belied her words.

Her voice now was low and shaky, but shaky with delight not discomfort.

"Good huh?" he asked her, his own voice rough, as he brought her up close to his face and then let her down again. He thrust heavily into her, pounding her cunt, little grunts escaping from his throat with every pump of his hips. She started giggling and she ground herself hard against him. He felt his own mirth welling up inside him, like a bubble it burst, his long raspy laugh echoing in their bedchamber. _This is damn beautiful fucking_, he chuckled to himself, the absurd acrobatics of this night would be memorable fire to warm them later when they were apart.

He held her with one arm as he caught her swollen pink nipple in between his index and middle fingers. He pinched it, it pushed her over the edge of the cliff, she gave a cry, there was no music sweeter to his ears. She had the most adorable cry when she climaxed, exquisitely feminine, bashful and surprised. She twisted her hips hard against him, he held her tight to him, supporting her weight with his hands on her arse, as she trembled and shuddered and then gave way with voluptuous pulsations around his cock.

He carried her to the bed, falling upon her. His weight was heavy on her in that position and he withdrew his cock to readjust himself. As he did, she gave a whimper, and her hands clutched at her cunt as she curled up into a ball like a little puppy. He watched her as she twisted and trembled, her breathing come in as if she was winded from a long gallop down a flight of serpentine steps. He started stroking himself at the sight of her, her curtain of hair falling over her nakedness. She moved and the hair would move with her like clouds moving over the sun, revealing a nipple, a swathe of flat belly, a peek of the auburn curls between her legs, and everywhere lovely clean skin, pale and luminescent as a pearl. When her climax ebbed, she propped herself up on her elbows and stared back at him, shy and exhilarated at the sight of him stroking himself.

"Am I lovely?" she asked.

He nodded, she was lovely and she was loved. He could say nothing, his cock had caught his tongue.

He must look like a hideous demon to her, panting like some incubus or hellhound at the sight of her flushed nakedness, stroking his cock with vigor. He had imagined her like his so many times over the years, going to his bed nursing his profound loneliness with nothing but a wineskin and a stiff cock. He had been half ashamed of his base lust for her, she was sweet, so sweet and pure. Giving her compassion, a costly gift, not to be thrown away when one was in the den of lions, to undeserving dogs like that cowardly drunkard Ser Dontos ... and to him. She was a lady to be worshiped from afar like in those knightly tales of daring he had loved so foolishly as a child. He shouldn't be thinking of her like that, but he would anyway, he had possessed so few pleasures in his life. He would imagine her almost like that she was now, her lips red from sucking him off, her cunt sore from his use of it, her auburn hair falling around her like a mantle, her head crowned with a crown of roses, his forest lass, the embodiment of spring. She grinnned at him knowingly, as if she could peek inside his brain and see all those years of forbidden fantasies. She wore no crown of roses, she was not a dream, she was flesh, she lay before him, _real_, wearing her crown of humanity.

"Show me your cunny," he rasped, a man half dazed. It was what he would say to her in his old fevered dreams.

She spread her legs wide so that he could see it, the lips down there deep pink and swollen. She bent her head down, trying to look between her legs herself, spreading her folds apart with the vee of her fingers. He stroked himself harder, the wetness of her cunt lubricating his cock, making each stroke deliciously smooth and sensitive.

"Your arsehole," he groaned. She laid back down and pulled her knees up to her chin, giving from his vantage point a tantalizing peek at her adorable tight arsehole. He approached her, pulling her legs down, climbing on the bed, his knees straddling her hips, as stroked himself furiously. He felt the tension coil inside him, he felt his testicles tightened like a hard fist. He heard his own breath come in hard and fast. He was ready to burst.

She caressed his thighs and then moved her hands up to cup her breasts as if to make an offering of them to him. The tension broke, he climaxed hard, his hips bucking wildly, his face twisting in a grimace at the force of his explosion. His seed spilled forth in long, voluminous, thick ropes that blanketed her teats and stomach. She moaned softly when his warm wet seed hit her skin, her body arching as if she was climaxing as well.

"Bad Dog, bad Dog," she teased him, pinching his nipple as he had done to her after his bucking ceased.

He looked down at her, her skin so fine and translucent, covered in his seed, and then he looked at her mouth, open wide, her lips blooming like a red rose. He stared broodingly at her, no more finished with his desire now than when she had climaxed while he rode her standing up. She must have felt the same, for he saw her dip her fingers into the seed that had landed on her teats and then use those seed-drench fingers to rub herself between her legs.

He turned his body, crouching over her, so that his groin was at her face, his own face in the direction of her toes. Sliding his hand underneath her head, he lifted her mouth up to receive him, "I have more to give you. Suck me off," he ordered her.

She sucked on him tenderly, he was half hard, but very sensitive. While she serviced him, he rubbed his fingers in the seed that spilled on her stomach. He fucked her with his fingers, sinking in two deep, her inner tissues so soft and delicate clasping at his fingers, subtly caressing them. He pulled out of her cunt and with her own wetness began to torture that nub anew, rubbing it in tight, firm circles just as she liked. Her mouth was full of his thick fully stiffened cock, while she squirmed as he wounded her. He pulled out of her mouth so that he could service her as she serviced him. He pressed his face between her legs, pulling her folds apart, he licked her steadily, over and over, patient and demanding. With her hands she stroked his cock, licking what part of it she could reach. He was too tall for her to be able to put her whole mouth on him while he had his face between her legs.

Between licking him, she would make little whimpers that drove him feral, she sounded like a bitch in heat, _dog-drawn_ as she would say when she wanted to goad him into fucking her. He felt her begin to shiver, he saw her legs start to tremble. She pushed his face away from her cunt, when he leaned back he felt her greedy mouth on him, not playing with his tip but taking him as far she could, the might of that mouth sucking him dry. He rubbed her furiously in return as she drew on him with ravenous hunger. He felt the bliss of release as he died the little death, a small burst of his seed filling her mouth just as she wrenched his hands away from her cunt, her own climax rendering her powerfully weak and overly sensitive to the touch. He sighed in contentment as he leaned down over her, his face pressed against her open thighs, his mouth sucking gently on a patch of skin on her inner thigh, as soft and as delicate as a baby's.

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><p>He grunted with a heavy tremor of achievement and rolled over her, his head landing near her feet. She grinned at him, a grin of utter carnal satisfaction and adoration, spent beyond words. She made a frail movement, as if she had no more strength than a dying woman. She patted his thigh, the area of his body closest to her hand. <em>That'll do, Dog, that'll do,<em>the pat seem to say. Then she closed her eyes and fell into an deep exhausted slumber.

He looked at her exasperated. _Just like a man,_he grumbled. What if he wanted to cuddle or to talk? She fucked him and then promptly fell asleep.

He sat up and reached over for her linen smock, casually strewn on the bed. With it, he cleaned his seed off of her. He threw the smock on the floor, but did not stop his caresses of her body. He felt exultant at the freedom to touch her. With his knuckles and palms, he caressed her, starting at her calves, then to her knees, her inner thighs with its baby-soft skin, the juncture of her legs with its auburn curls, her tummy, her teats, her collarbone, her neck, and at last her cheeks, soft and flush with her exertions. He felt powerfully moved, he was a man given to sentimentality though few had ever drawn out those kinds of feelings in him. It was a strange rare sensation, a blissful emptiness, to touch her with intimate, tender knowledge but without the sweet and terrible oppression of desire.

He drew the blanket over her body, but instead of righting himself so that he could lay down on his pillow, he fell back lying beside her feet. He unwrapped the blanket and exposed her foot, kissing it tenderly. She had pretty toes and he gnawed on the big toe gently, feeling ridiculous about how much feeling the foot elicited in him, how it reduced him to lovesickness when it was just a common limb, not a woman's teats or her cunny or any other part that women had and men didn't. He grunted at the realization that he was truly her hound in human form, lying besides her heels in panting devotion.

A sudden vivid memory came to him, of the evening they had spent walking in the godswoods together, the night after their wedding. _Do you know why I love you Sandor?_ she had asked him. He said nothing, there was nothing to say that would do her any credit, he was not a good man. She hugged him tightly, looking up at him and smiled mysteriously as she twirled a strand of his hair around her finger, _Perhaps one day I will tell you why._

Lying there besides her, he thought he knew now what her answer would be... it was the same answer as his. Her foot and her body and her heart belong to him, by her own free choice, there was some mysterious force of personality inside _her_, a hidden key that unlocked _him_...his protection, his devotion, his desire, his love.

Sandor closed his eyes, a heavy desire to sleep overcoming him. He heard Sansa sigh in her sleep and felt her turn to embrace him, her arms folding around his calves. He turned towards her in kind.

They fell asleep like that curled around each other, like the number 69, like the circle divided into two teardrops halves, one black, the other white, that the maesters of the Yi Ti said was at the heart of the mystery of existence. The two halves not opposing forces, but complementary opposites. Sansa and Sandor, Beauty and Ugliness, Light and Darkness, Ice and Fire.

Female and Male, but unified, _one flesh_, without the sword of the sexes lying between them.


End file.
